


Hammer to Fall

by Syrum



Series: Flightless [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Blood and Torture, Body Horror, Body Modification, Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Corporal Punishment, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Injury, M/M, Memories, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Past angel Crowley, Pre-Fall (Good Omens), Pre-Relationship, Punishment, Torture, Violence, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-26 02:11:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19758466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrum/pseuds/Syrum
Summary: Every few years, in line with his serpentine nature, Crowley has to shed his skin to make way for fresh, new scales.  This was never a pleasant occurrence, but he really could do without the memories disguised as dreams that accompanied it.Memories of before, of losing his halo and his name.Of being forced, screaming, into a body that wasn't his own.





	Hammer to Fall

**Author's Note:**

> This is technically a prequel to something much longer that I've been working on for a while and will be starting to post VERY soon.
> 
> I say 'technically', because while they are in the same timeline, they don't follow immediately on from one another.
> 
> Eh, you'll see what I mean!
> 
> As always, all of my love to the WONDERFUL [WarlockWriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarlockWriter), without whom you would all have to put up with my unbeta'd messes!
> 
> (And yes, we're back to naming all GO fic after Queen songs!)

Crowley hadn’t been lying when he said he hadn’t meant to fall - it had been purely accidental, really. He had spent far too long, after the fact, blaming those he had spent the most time with up in Heaven. Silently cursing Lucifer and Beelzebub and Belphegor with the demonic hiss that had stolen his voice while he sat and healed from the agony of being forcibly wrenched from the Host.

He hadn’t been Crowley then. Hadn’t even been Crawley - not until after.

And yet, no matter how he looked back at it now, he knew the blame lay firmly at his own two feet. Association alone wasn’t enough to trigger a fall. Even back then, even when so much as looking at an archangel wrong could trigger a demotion and the angelic equivalent of a flogging - and whoever only knows he earned himself a  _ lot _ of demotions.

And a lot of floggings.

No, what had been the final nail in his metaphorical coffin, had been the question. It hadn’t even been a particularly good one - he’d asked Sandalphon why God had separated Earth from the Heavens, why make two separate planes of existence? He had been curious, nothing more. It might have been followed up with a couple more, the memories after that were a little hazy, but that had been the beginning of the end.

Or, well, the end of the end. Lucifer liked to remind the others that he was the First, the very first angel to be cast out of heaven as one of the Fallen, and no one really cared enough to actually correct him. It didn’t matter that angels had been vanishing left and right for what felt like forever in an existence without time. It didn’t  _ matter _ that there was a whole host of demons waiting for him by the time Lucifer took his overly dramatic swan dive from the Host. He was the first, because he said so, and that was that.

Crowley hadn’t been anywhere near the first, and for that he was at least vaguely thankful. Having to go through  _ that _ alone, was - well, it didn’t bear thinking about, really. He might not  _ like _ most of the other denizens of hell, but they were still better than the isolation suffered by the first few who were cast out, aimless. Twisted and broken.  _ Abandoned _ . 

He had barely finished speaking when hands grabbed him and he was escorted without too much resistance from a scowling Sandalphon into a room he hadn’t known existed until that point. That he wished,  _ wished _ he could forget.

* * *

“Crowley, dear?” Crowley’s head shot up, thankful for the covering of tinted glass to hide his too-wide eyes and unintended surprise. Aziraphale was watching him just a little too closely, and Crowley swallowed down the rising bile as he shook the memories clear.

“Sorry, angel. Was off in my own world for a few seconds there, what were you saying?” His voice wasn’t as steady as he would have liked, though at least it wasn’t enough to be noticeable.

“That was a bit more than a few seconds - is everything quite alright?” Aziraphale’s hand was hovering perhaps only an inch from his knee, uncertain, and the look of undisguised concern on his face was nothing short of heart-breaking.

“Yes - yes, of course, why wouldn’t it be?” He shouldn’t feel guilty, lying - he was a  _ demon _ for crying out loud! It was second nature, as deeply engrained him as sleeping or breathing might be to a mortal. Yet, there he was, fidgeting under the pressing concern of his friend and struggling to keep his traitorous forked tongue under control.

“You  _ would _ tell me if there was something wrong, wouldn’t you?” And Aziraphale sounded so very  _ concerned _ , it was almost enough to turn the roiling guilt into an admission he would never be quite ready for.

“Course I would.” He must not have sounded all that convincing, because Aziraphale was still looking at him  _ like that _ , and Crowley wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand it without either cracking under the pressure or snapping at the angel.

Probably the latter; he could count on one hand the amount of times he’d actually  _ cracked _ , and wasn’t planning on adding to that number any time soon.

“It’s getting close to  _ that _ time again, isn’t it?” Aziraphale asked gently, but at least he withdrew the offered comfort of his hand and Crowley was finally able to relax minutely.

“S’getting obvious now, isn’t it?” Crowley scratched absently at the dry skin at his wrist, cringing at the slight discomfort. “Might not be around for a few days, sleep it off. You be alright without me?” He teased, letting his glasses slide down his nose so he could offer Aziraphale a wink.

“Of course I will.” Aziraphale scoffed as he rolled his eyes, though it was in good humour. “Would you like me to pop by, keep the plants watered and whatnot?”

“Nah, don’t think that’ll be necessary. It doesn’t feel like this’ll be a bad one - we’ll be feeding the ducks again by the time the weekend gets here.”

“I shall hold you to that.” 

* * *

It was always like this, around the time of his shed. His mind would wander, he would dream of a past he barely recalled and his skin would feel entirely  _ wrong _ for a few days. Aziraphale didn’t know about the dreams, at least - he wasn’t sure he could stand the pity in his angel’s eyes were he to ever find out.

At least it didn’t happen often. It had been a good four years since Crowley last had to shed his skin, and he’d managed almost seven before that. Still, for a six-thousand-year-old being, four years seemed an  _ unfairly _ short amount of time in the grand scheme of things.

He took his time setting the bedroom up; bottles of water within easy reach should he need them, a large heater with a remote control to keep the room at the right temperature for his reptilian form, clean sheets on the bed which would need disposing of once the process was over and done with. He would be without access to any of his abilities for the duration, and Crowley tried not to let the growing anxiety at his impending defencelessness overwhelm him.

Because if anyone  _ did _ want to take him out for  _ good _ , the next few days were going to be an ideal time to do so.

His bed sheets felt oddly soft as he slithered into tight coils in an attempt to find a position that was vaguely comfortable, belly scales overly-sensitised as the dull old skin tried to split away to reveal new, bright scales.

Crowley didn’t want to sleep, knew full well what was waiting for him on the other side, but his body was just so  _ tired _ . He knew what was coming, knew he needed as much rest as he was allowed in between the bouts of immeasurable discomfort that came from shedding a part of a body that had never been intended as his own.

* * *

“You know the rules.” He didn’t recognise the angel holding the metal implement. Didn’t recognise the ones who fastened both of his wings into a painful vice either, spread out on either side like some sort of pinned bird.

Not that birds had been invented at that point. No, those would come much later.

“No questions. You will be cast from heaven, your wings and halo will be stripped from you and you will crawl upon Her earth as a beast until the end of days.”

“Don’t I at least get a first warning before you kick me out?” He tried, trying to swallow down the bubbling fear in his belly. Everything was cold,  _ so cold _ , and as his movements were entirely restricted he felt real terror for the first time in his life.

The other angel didn’t respond, only glared at his flagrant disregard of the rules.

The first thing that Crowley noticed at the time - the thing that he didn’t seem to be able to escape in the centuries that had passed since his fall - was the smell. Burning feathers initially, which then shifted to something else. Something he later knew to be the smell of his own flesh being seared all the way down to the bone.

Then, the pain started.

* * *

He was vaguely aware of the scrape of something solid and too hot against his skin, jerking away from it with a vaguely pained hiss. Everything was too tall and too bright, too hot and too cold. Everything  _ hurt _ , and he shoved the worst of it up against a cabinet of some sort to alleviate the ache.

It worked, to an extent. Crowley came back to himself with a sigh, repeating the action a handful more times to loosen the partly removed skin of his side against his bedside table and making certain to put a little more distance between himself and the heater. The motion knocked a bottle of water from where it sat waiting for him atop the short table. It landed a little too close to his head, causing him to rear back with a threatening hiss.

The thin plastic was less than nothing beneath his sharp fangs, water gushing from the gaping tear to pool on the dark laminate of the flooring he desperately wished he had thought to change to dirt and rocks before the process began.  _ Something _ to rub his splitting skin against, to make the process easier in his moments of lucidity. It was too late now though, and at least the water would remain for a time as he drank down what he could before the next fever-dream could take him.

* * *

It tore through him, as nothing else ever had before, or since. A vicious, burning,  _ searing _ pain that wrapped around his mind and left him with nothing else but the sensation of pure agony.

There was the sound of metal grating against bone, yet he scarcely heard it, his wings aflame as each press of the implement into his flesh brought a new wave of white-hot pain which set his body shaking and his vision blurring until all he could see was the grim line of satisfaction which served as the mouth of his abuser. Cold blue eyes refused to meet his, instead focusing on the task at hand, one brand after another against the very core of his being.

What was an angel, if not for their wings?

He didn’t realise, for a long while, that the unending scream was coming from him. His throat burned, yet he barely felt it, eyes wide and streaming with an agony that seemed to have no end and no beginning. It hurt, it  _ hurt _ , and as his halo was stripped from him and his wings blackened from quill to tip, he wished that angels had the capacity to lose consciousness.

The left wing should have hurt less, he thought distantly, numbed by the agony of fire and destruction that the right had become. Yet somehow, it seemed so, so much worse. Why both,  _ why both _ , and the feathers on that side slowly turned too as the angel worked. Perhaps it was the nerve endings anticipating the contact, knowing what was coming next. Or perhaps it was the closer proximity to the source of the halo that no longer was.

It didn’t matter. They weren’t taking any chances and he knew - distantly, as they stripped his flight feathers all the way back to the bone, cauterised them - that he would never again see the soft clouds of heaven from above.

* * *

“-ley? Can you hear me, dear boy?” The room was too bright and there was someone,  _ someone! _ Cold blue eyes, too raw and too close and the memories continued to assault his fever-addled mind.

He lashed out with fangs and fear, tasted copper and slid back into the oblivion he wished so desperately to escape.

* * *

They didn’t bother waiting for him to recover from the mutilation of his wings, strong arms maneuvering him roughly from the restraints so that he could be dragged bodily through to the next room. He was scarcely aware of anything beyond the continual ache of his body, the burning that would not abate, yet at least the screaming had stopped for now.

_ His _ screaming, perhaps. It was hard to think, to remember.

“This is your punishment for disobeying Her will.” His attacker indicated a pile of black and red scales upon what might have been an alter, but seemed to serve as more of a table - for what purpose, he didn’t know. He hadn’t seen anything like it throughout all of heaven before. Or, if he had, the memory of it was long gone.

* * *

There was safety, here. Hands which were cool to the touch and a core which burned brighter than his own ever had, blue eyes that shone with kindness and not cold malice, and he couldn’t understand who or where or what but he knew he didn’t want that sensation to leave. Couldn’t afford to  _ let _ it leave, whatever it was - not while the pain was still so raw and the threat pressing upon his thoughts so frighteningly close.

“Hush now, you’re quite safe.” The room seemed cooler, his skin no longer burning from something half-remembered and half-real. A damp cloth trailed over his forehead and down his cheeks, one side and then the other, blocking his still-blurred vision for a handful of moments and chasing away the salt-slicked remnants of fever-dreams.

He might have spoken, but the sound of it escaped his notice and words were sliding beyond his comprehension. A spike of panic ran through him as the room began to dim, consciousness fading away, and he reached out with everything he had to wrap around and hold into the light that caressed him with such loving adoration.

It would be alright, so long as he didn’t let go.

* * *

The pain of losing his halo and the butchery of his wings was nothing compared to what they did to him in that room.

Shoved face-down onto the altar, he could do little to fight back, knew that he wouldn’t even if he  _ could _ . Not against Her wishes. Hands pinned him in place, too many to count, too many for the number of angels in the room with him. His wings were folded in on themselves and shoved against his back, the agony coursing through him dragging a hoarse cry from his already abused throat, yet the attack did not abate.

So close to it, nose-to-nose, he could now see the blank, dead eyes of what he had thought to be simple scales, amber and bisected from top to bottom. This was a  _ skin _ , of what he couldn’t fathom - something that did not yet exist, or had long since passed, but it stretched like a strip of once-alive rope down the length of his body and off the end of the altar.

He couldn’t question it. Couldn’t speak, tongue stolen from him in retribution for his crimes - crimes he couldn’t put name to in that moment. It sat, fat and useless in his mouth, serving no purpose save to help carry the whimpering cries from his chest.

The skin disappeared from his vision, silence filling the room for a long moment as no one seemed to dare move. 

The pain started up again only moments later. It began with the soles of his feet, agony that shot through him as though he were being entirely unmade, traveling up through his ankles into his shins - it took a moment to realise that it was the pain itself that was shifting, moving, travelling slowly upwards as it engulfed him. He screamed until he no longer could, until the twisting, rending of flesh reached his knees. He let loose whimpering cries until it reached his hips.

He was silent long before it reached his chest.

* * *

“Try to sit, you need to drink something.” He let himself be moved gently up against soft pillows, the plastic rim of a bottle neck placed against his lips so he could swallow down the much-needed relief of cold water against his parched throat.

“-zira-” He tried as the water was taken away once he had drank his fill. Shivers wracked his too-wide and too-short form, and the memory of scales made his stomach roil, threatening to bring the water back up once more.

“I’m here, Crowley. I’m not going anywhere.” A blanket appeared around his shoulders and gentle hands eased him back down onto the bed. There was a heavy weight across him, around him, and the warmth of another lowered him into the caress of sleep.

Crowley? Yes, that was right.

He didn’t fight it this time.

* * *

He didn’t realise, not until the eyes he gazed through were no longer his own, what precisely they had done to him.

A thin tongue flickered from his mouth, tasting and smelling all at once - animosity, fear and the tang of copper that could only have been from blood he shouldn’t have been able to shed and which now coursed through his veins, new and terrifying. The fear had been his as well, still was as he tried to move and found he could not.

Legs that had carried him were gone, arms to pick himself up having already shifted into a long line of muscle and tissue and bone drenched in shiny black scales that shifted with each small and barely-managed movement.

“ _ Crawley _ .” The angel, his tormentor, stared down at him and smiled. Crawley? If he’d had another name before, he didn’t any more.

They dropped him into the Pit, like that, and Crawley hissed at the final, blessed relief of it.

* * *

“Are you back with me?” Crowley ached from scalp to toe, everything new and raw in a way he only experienced immediately after shedding his skin. Gentle fingers combed through sweat-damp locks, just on the verge of painful yet never quite tipping over, any style left in the mess of red hair long since lost.

“M’awake.” He muttered, slowly coming back to himself and finding that he had wrapped himself rather firmly around Aziraphale as he slept. Aziraphale, who was carding oh so careful fingers through his hair, who was  _ in his bed _ , and who -  _ oh _ , Satan preserve him! Who was wearing loose sweats and the softest tee Crowley had ever had the pleasure of pressing his cheek up against. Aziraphale  _ never _ dressed down, and the knowledge that he had, for  _ Crowley _ no less, sent a pleasant if slightly embarrassing shiver through him. “Why’re you here?” And if his voice wasn’t as steady as it should have been, well - he could be forgiven one or two weaknesses, considering he was only just barely conscious.

“Ah, - you see, I was concerned when you didn’t appear for our promised afternoon out, but I know these things can sometimes take a while so I waited for a few more days and, well, here we are.” A few days? Crowley sifted through his memories looking for the last conversation he’d had with Aziraphale - it felt like an eternity ago, and his head was still unpleasantly fogged, but he guessed that would make it a week at the very least, a week and a half perhaps.

He couldn’t remember the last time it had taken him anything like that long to shed his skin. From past experience, he considered a week to be particularly bad, and longer than that was almost unheard of.

“Thanks.” Crowley mumbled into the soft cotton, knowing he should probably untangle his long limbs from around the angel but without either the energy or the strength of will required to actually do so. “Didn’t have to worry about me, though. M’used to this.”

“Perhaps you are, but  _ I’m _ not.” Aziraphale huffed, the exhale of breath skimming over his hair. “It’s been  _ three weeks _ , Crowley! I couldn’t leave you alone for that long.” He must have realised a beat too late the full implication of what he had just said, because Crowley could feel the way Aziraphale tensed in his arms, before almost guiltily adding, “All of your lovely plants would have died without anyone here to water them.”

“The plants.” He replied, swallowing down the lump that had formed in his throat. “Right, of course.” Three weeks? He had been out of it for  _ three weeks? _

And Aziraphale had been at his side for two of them, was  _ still _ there, even after seeing-

Seeing that.

He didn’t deserve this angel. Didn’t deserve him, but wasn’t about to let him go any time soon either. Crowley was  _ selfish _ and  _ damaged _ and  _ fallen _ , had lost his halo to a question and his flight to the angel who had followed him down. But Aziraphale had picked  _ him  _ at the end of it all and that was far more than Crowley could ever have deserved.

The memories might never leave him, but falling was worth it if it meant he got to keep this.

Throwing caution to the wind, knowing that he had already overstepped any and all of the lines they had set down in the sand too many years before, Crowley wriggled his way up under Aziraphale’s chin, pleased when the angel moved to accommodate him. With a small sigh, which came out as a low hiss, he let himself relax as he felt lips curve into a smile against his hair.


End file.
